What Was And What Should Be
by Mardy Lass
Summary: John’s grandfather knows he shouldn’t be reminiscing and revealing the things he’s seen – but John wants him to tell him a story, dammit! Rated T for The Boys’ mouths mild, this time and some blood. Posted first at SPNville dot net.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note:**_

_This was written in the space of three days, around work and play and TV and iPods. As I started writing the very first chapter it I knew exactly who it was for. **Weenie Deanie Groupie** – this is for you! Hope your mam can read it out for you (missing any scary bits, just like when you watch the show on TV) and most of all, I hope you like it!_

* * *

**ONE**

"Mom, when's Grampa getting here?" John asked, trying not to whine.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, John Winchester," Sarah grinned, reaching out and tousling her son's shaggy black hair. "He's on his way, and he's got a way to drive. He said eleven o'clock, and he's always on time, right?"

"Yeah," John sighed, letting himself be consoled by this fact. "You think he'll like it?" he asked nervously.

"I think he'll love it," she winked. "Have you done your homework?"

"Of course, Mom!"

"Have you done your chores?"

"Of course I have, Mom!"

"Then don't worry about anything. It's only ten thirty now, just wait. He's never late." She patted his shoulder once, getting up from the sofa and going into the kitchen.

John watched her go, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms. "It's not the same without Gud," he said miserably.

Sarah's hand stopped as it reached for the cupboard door handle. She turned and looked back at her seven year old son, taking in the disappointment on his wistful face.

"I know, honey. I'm sorry," she said. "I know you really want him to be here."

"It's not fair," he muttered. Then he sat back, folding his arms and huffing in a way that reminded her of her own father. "But I suppose that's just the way it is." He got up and looked around the room. "Is there something else I can do?"

"You can help me make some bread, if you like," she smiled gladly.

"That's girls' work," he teased. She pointed at him.

"Now, now! Don't you go repeating things you've heard your Gud say!" she grinned. But John's little face fell at the mention of his name, and she bit her lip. "Come on then, come and help your mom."

"Ok," he said, making an effort to be cheerful. _After all, it's not her fault Gud's not here. And at least Grampa will see my prize._

He followed her into the kitchen and serious discussions about mixing bowls began.

* * *

John's ears perked at the sound of the doorbell and he turned to his mother.

"He's here!" he shouted joyfully, jumping down from the foot stool and racing off into the hallway.

"John! Don't you make a mess of your grandfather with your hands!" she called.

But John was already pulling back the door and taking a deep breath.

"Grampa!" he shouted gleefully, jumping out of the front door and onto the step. He bounced and his obscenely tall grandfather snatched him up with more strength than he should have had at his age.

"And how's my favourite Winchester?" he grinned, as John put his arms round him and buried his head in his neck.

"I've got so much to tell you and I've got a new picture frame and some new games and Mom helped me put my new prize on the shelf and Dad said you'd like it and I can show you some more drawings and I even finished writing my essay for English and then I got—"

"Ok, ok, slow down," the old man grinned, hefting his little grandson onto his right arm and looking in through the open door to see his daughter-in-law grinning at him.

"Hi Dad," she said gratefully. "Sorry about Tiger here, he's just been bursting to show you his new room all week."

"No worries," he said, looking back at his grandson. The little grandson who had eyes so like his grandfather, but hair so like his father. He smiled, bouncing him slightly on his arm. "Shall we get inside then?"

"Let's go!" John squealed in delight, and they walked in and through to the front room. He let the boy down to the carpet and he raced off toward the stairs. "Come on Gramps, come and look!"

"John Winchester, if you don't calm down and wait just one minute, your grandfather's going straight home again," Sarah said sternly. John bit his lip and stood stock-still. "That's better. Now you go on up to your room while I say hello to your Grandpa."

John grinned and turned back to the stairs, scrambling up them as fast as he could. Sarah watched until he was out of earshot, then looked at her father-in-law.

"I'm sorry, Dad. You know he just gets too excited when you get here," she said apologetically.

"Really, it's no trouble," he said warmly. "Just good to see him racing round like he owns the place, you know? Come here you, give your old man a hug," he added.

She put her arms round him and squeezed. She held onto him for a long moment, smelling the same after-shave, feeling the same urgency in his hug, as if he expected her to vanish before his eyes. She pulled herself away slowly, looking at him.

Underneath his shirt he had his favourite t-shirt on, she noticed – the light brown one with the picture of the greyhound. His jeans were clean at least, so someone had been to clean and press his house before he'd come down. His hair, once brown but now a handsome shade of streaky grey and fading chocolate, had been cut recently, and she knew why. His brown-green eyes, once alive with worry and anxiety, were now blessed with laughter lines and vitality, and she felt herself smile for a moment. Then it fell away.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get down for Mom's anniversary last week," she said guiltily. But he put a hand up, waving it off.

"Oh, go on. She ain't going to mind, she knows it's been ten years or more. You know she'd be nagging me to stop going to see her at the cemetery anyway," he smiled.

"That's not fair, Dad. I wish I'd got down. But Robert was busy with that thing in Connecticut, there would have been no-one here for John and I couldn't leave him with you," she said apologetically.

"Where is Bobby anyway? Not like my wayward son to work on a Saturday morning," he joked.

"He's in Kansas for that business thing. He's trying to sell stuff to some new factory," she said, with a slight frown. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"You don't like it?"

"I don't like that he's so far away."

"Aw, the road trip will do him good. I've had more than my fair share, never did me any harm. Well… mostly," he added.

"Oh you and your stories," she grinned. "I'll get some coffee on, how's that? You'd better see to John before he pulls the room apart in sheer nervous excitement."

"Gotcha," he chuckled, patting her shoulder before turning and walking across the room. He pulled himself up the stairs, slightly proud he was still making the entire flight without apparent effort at sixty-eight years old.

He turned left at the top, walking down slowly and stopping outside his grandson's room. He knocked smartly.

"Hey there. Mind if I come in?" he asked with a grin.

The door flew open and John rushed out, grabbing his grandfather's hand and pulling him excitedly.

"Look! I did the walls, Mom and Dad helped me with the pictures!" he said breathlessly.

The old man let himself be pulled inside and he stopped to look around.

The bedroom had been painted top to toe in light blue, with a star field and map of the solar system on the ceiling. The bed and table were of matching darker blue, and the two computers embedded in the desk reverberated with the slight hum of power and light.

"Wow," was all he could say. "Wish I'd had a place like this when _I_ was growing up!"

John grinned. "And I got a new terminal too – look," he said quickly, pointing to the desk. "You like it?"

He walked over and peered down at the two screens, pulling half-moon glasses out of the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and slipping them on. He looked them both over slowly.

"Are these new GST mark IVs?" he asked, impressed.

"Yeah! Dad _said_ you'd know what they were!" he laughed. "He said you'd always liked computers – like from when you used to have to carry them around instead of just controlling them from your iPlay," he added.

"Oh yeah. There was a time… there was a time I never went anywhere without a laptop," he sighed, turning to look at his grandson.

"Is that what they were called? Laptops?" he asked, fascinated.

"Yeah. Cos you used to have to sit them on your lap," he grinned.

"No!"

"Yeah, really!" he chuckled. He looked over at the new bookshelf against the far wall. "Is that a new soccer trophy?"

"Yeah, look!" John grinned. His soft little hands pulled at his grandfather's rough and used limb, leading him over to stand in front of the shelf.

The old man put his hand out for it, picking it up and chuckling.

"Top goal scorer, junior division, 2051? The year's not done yet, how can they give you that?" he teased.

"Grampa!" he chuckled. "The 2050 – 2051 season's finished – it's June already!"

"Oh yeah, my mistake," he grinned, putting the trophy down and ruffling the boy's hair.

"So… are you going to tell me another story?" he asked eagerly.

"A story?" he prompted, surprised. "I thought I'd come to look at your new room here."

"Yeah, but… Well… I wanted another story – another creepy one. And… well…"

"What is it?" he asked, noticing the young boy's face turn sad. "What?"

"I wanted Gud to be here. Why's he not here?" he asked, his eyes turning down at the corners in abject sadness.

"Oh John," he sighed, turning and walking to the bed. He sat slowly, and the boy wandered over and climbed up next to him, leaning on his thin grandfather and watching him. "You know… I've had a long and strange life. You can save for something and work hard for it, just to have it taken away at the very last moment." He paused, his old, tired eyes seeing other things – memories, perhaps. "You can hope and do your best to look out for someone, but sometimes it's the ones you love the most that are kept from you."

"Gramps?" he asked quietly. He didn't hear him, and the little boy reached over and picked up his right hand, studying the back of it slowly. "Gramps, I'm sorry he's not here. I love his stories. But I love your stories too. So… if he can't be here… and you can… and it makes you happy to tell your old stories when he was still here… Can you tell me one thing?"

The old man was brought out of his reverie by the familiar tone of voice, so like his own had used to be, pleading for someone to listen to him, a long, long time ago. He looked down.

"Sure, John," he said gently. "What story do you want?"

"One about Gud and you fighting monsters," he said bravely. "And… how you got this," he said, lifting his hand slowly.

His grandfather looked down at the back of his old, worn hand, and the tiny one holding it delicately. And the faded scar, about three inches long, criss-crossed with tiny white lines like railroad tracks.

"What, this old thing?" he grinned.

"Yeah," John said softly.

"Alright then. But you have to promise me that you won't get nightmares like the last time."

"That was vampires!" John said defensively. "Tell me you never dreamt of vampires after you fought them!"

"Never," he said seriously. "Just lollipops and candy-canes." Then he let himself grin.

John nudged him. "Come on Grampa Sam, a story! A good one! And it has to have Gud in it. I miss him."

"Alright," Grandpa Sam Winchester said with amusement, turning to look at his grandson. "The one about how I got this scar. It happened like this – and it just so happens it _does_ include your Great Uncle Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The Impala hummed down the road in the bright sunshine, Dean's hands squeezing the wheel in contentment and relaxation.

"We could make it by ten if you weren't trying to drag this trip out," Sam said meaningfully, looking up from his map.

"Who's dragging it out? All I'm doing is making sure we don't get pulled over by anyone who could run the plates on this car, Sammy," Dean said easily.

"_Woo-hoo! Go Great Uncle Dean and his super-car!" John squealed excitedly. "He called you 'Sammy'! I like it when he called you Sammy, Gramps!"_

_His grandfather looked at him, unable to dampen his own enthusiasm as much as he'd like._

"_You want me to tell the story?" he asked with a grin._

"_Yes, Gramps."_

"_Then let me," he said._

"_Yes Gramps," he said eagerly. He looked at the small boy, then cleared his throat._

"Alright, I just think we could get there before dark for a change," Sam said testily.

"Sammy, look out of the window, would you?" Dean said cheerfully. "See that?" he added, waving a hand at the view – which he wasn't actually seeing, due to watching the road. "Sunshine. Trees. Fresh air. How often do we get to drive in good weather like this, and during the day, huh? Huh?"

"Yeah, I get it," he admitted wearily. "I just think getting to this town and getting rooms before all the decent ones are gone would be a welcome change."

"What do you mean, the decent ones?" Dean asked, confused. "We got a good room last night."

"It had _bull horns _on the wall."

"What do you expect in Texas?" Dean grinned. "'Least it was dead."

Sam snorted with amusement. "You have a point."

"No, mine had two points," Dean chuckled.

The car shivered suddenly and Dean's face fell. He looked over the dashboard before Sam caught him doing it.

"What?" he asked warily.

"Nothing," Dean said defensively.

They drove on in silence, and it was ten minutes before the car again gave a shiver. This time she coughed a little, too.

"Ok, what?" Sam demanded.

"Nothing! Really, Sam, it's nothing," Dean protested. "She'll be fine."

"Well are we gonna reach this place or not?"

"Of course we are," he snapped dismissively.

The Impala lurched and coughed, and there was a distinctive sound of blowback before she began to rattle.

"Aw hell," Dean growled, watching the dials on the dash move and skitter.

"What?"

Dean didn't answer. Instead he pulled over smartly but left the engine running. He squeaked open the door and disappeared round the front, yanking the bonnet open.

Sam sat back in the seat, shaking his head.

A few minutes later Dean shut the bonnet soundly and got back in.

"We can make it," he said confidently. Sam just looked at him as he checked all the mirrors and pulled back out onto the empty road.

"Seriously? Two hundred and fifty miles like this?" he asked, reaching for the dash as the car coughed again, sending a ripple through the seats.

"No – two miles to the gas station," Dean said firmly. He muttered something to himself, rolling his eyes in mortification, and Sam began to smile.

"Wait – is this cos you fitted some new thing this morning?" he asked slyly.

"Shut up, Sam."

"It is, isn't it? What's the matter, didn't screw it down properly? Or has the hose come loose?" he said maliciously.

"Sam," Dean began angrily, "if you don't shut your piehole I'll boot your ungrateful ass out of this car and you can walk those two hundred and fifty miles, you hear me?"

"_Great Uncle Dean said 'ass'!" John guffawed suddenly. His grandfather closed his mouth soundly._

"_Oh. Whoops," he realised. He cleared his throat. "Anyway…"_

The Impala pulled into the gas station slowly, odd thumping and bumping noises coming from under the bonnet. Not to mention a slight amount of steam.

"You're in charge of food, Mr Smug," Dean said tersely, climbing out of the driver's side and walking round the front of the car.

Sam sat back and shook his head, looking up at the late afternoon sun and taking a deep breath of fresh air. Laced with petrol fumes.

He sighed and got out of the car, going into the small shop and looking around to see what food was on offer. He glanced down the aisles, spotting some kind of microwaveable sausage rolls and wondering what else would be located nearby.

He heard the door jingle and a cheerful voice begin talking to the assistant on duty. He looked up and watched the exchange between the short lady behind the counter and the tall man who had just filled up. He was just looking away when something caught his eye.

He paused, unsure of what had alerted him. But something had definitely made him gasp. He looked back round slowly, trying to look in the same direction and angle again.

And there it was.

He walked to the counter carrying the two rolls, then looked at the girl. She finished taking payment and smiled cheerily at the customer. He side-stepped Sam and walked out with a slight bounce to his step.

Sam walked to the counter, looking out casually at Dean bent over the open bonnet of the car, tools splayed on the air cleaner cover.

"Hi there," she said with a wide, friendly smile. Sam looked back at her.

"Hi. Just these, please," he said politely. She nodded and beeped them through the till. "And… is the water round the back?" he added hopefully.

"That your car?" she asked, gesturing to the Impala with her head.

"Ah… yeah," he admitted with a pinched face. "Looks like we're going to need to refill a radiator."

"Looks like," she smiled. "No problem. Just pull her round the back there and help yourself to the tap or hose," she nodded.

"Thanks," he said cheerfully, holding out a ten dollar bill. She accepted it and handed him back his change.

"You want to heat those?" she asked as he turned away.

"Maybe after we've sorted out the water," he said. "Thanks though."

"No trouble, it's what we're here for."

He nodded with a smile, opening the door and walking over to the car slowly. He stopped by the passenger window, tossing the rolls inside and then walking back round.

Dean straightened up, looking at the black grease on his fingers.

"Well?" he asked. "Did you get food?"

"Yeah," he said easily. "Do me a favour," he added, turning his back to the shop window and leaning over the open engine. "Pretend you're pointing stuff out to me."

"And why would I do that? You trying to impress the chick at the counter, like you know about cars?"

"What can I say, this is a real funky station you picked," Sam said slowly.

Dean's face fell slowly and he cleared his throat, turning to the engine again. He leaned over, putting his left hand out on the wing to take his weight as he pointed with his right.

"And how's that?" he asked. Sam leaned over, as if looking.

"She's a shapeshifter."

"Really? And how'd you figure that out, Sammy?" he asked, moving his hand and pushing slightly at the hot radiator hose, as if demonstrating rigidity.

"Her eyes on the CCTV, inside the shop," he said. "I can't believe she's just standing there, serving people and pretending."

"Then we first we make sure there's an original her tied up back there somewhere," Dean said, sniffing and straightening again. "Then we take care of her."

"In broad daylight? At a busy gas station?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sam. We can come back a little later."

"_What does 'panties in a bunch' mean?" John interrupted innocently. _

"_Oh… did I say that?" his grandfather said, lost._

"_Yeah. What does it mean?" he pressed._

"_Ah… Look, let's get back to the story. Do you like shapeshifters?" he asked hopefully._

"_Love 'em!" John grinned, settling down again._

"_Well then…"_

"You mean delay that werewolf thing tonight? Dean, it's the end of the lunar cycle," Sam pressed. "If we miss it tonight, we could lose this one, and when are we gonna come across it again?"

"Don't sweat it, Sammy. We'll take this 'shifter out and still have time to get to your spot on the map and shoot some werewolf. How hard can it be?"

"As long as you're sure," Sam said slowly. Dean picked up the cloth tucked inside the wing, wiping his hands slowly. He looked at his younger brother for a moment, then sniffed casually.

"Is this cos it's a werewolf?" he asked gingerly.

"What? No," Sam protested. "It's just cos we've tracked it for a week and now this is our last chance," he added stiffly.

"Sammy, it's ok to be strung out about werewolves," he said lightly. "Tell the truth, it kicks _me_ in the teeth to have to see another one, never mind you."

"_What did he mean?" John interrupted. "Why would you hate werewolves?"_

_Grandpa Sam sighed. "Let's just say, I met one once, and after that I didn't like them much," he replied, failing to admit that it wasn't hate, just sheer heart-break at being faced with another person who had no idea of their wrong-doings. "Can I continue?"_

"_Please!" John grinned._

"_Right then…"_

The radiator refilled with a mixture of fresh water and coolant, and night rapidly falling, the brothers sat in the Impala not five miles down the road.

Sam pulled out his Palm Treo and began sorting through mail. Dean dosed as his favourite Bad Company anthology played serenely from the tape player.

"Hey man," Sam said quietly, interrupting '_Silver Blue and Gold_'. "Do you think we should go back now? Most places will probably change shifts at eleven."

Dean opened an eye and looked at the clock in the dash.

"It's not even nine," he muttered, letting his eye sink closed again.

"Yeah, but we have to verify she's a 'shifter before we even think of a way in," he reasoned.

"I've got a way in," his older brother muttered.

"Oh yeah? What?" he asked.

"Trust me," he mumbled.

"Then let's go," he said, turning off the PDA and sliding it into his jacket pocket. He leaned over and slapped at Dean's leg harshly. He jumped, shocked. "Come on!"

"Ok! Alright!" Dean protested. "Keep your shirt on! She'll still be there!" He straightened up and stretched slowly, yawning before he started the car. "You do realise I have to gank some 'shifter before driving most of the night, before finding and shooting some werewolf?" he pointed out. "Another half hour napping wouldn't have done any harm."

"Says you," Sam shot back. "What if they change shifts early?"

"Whatever," Dean sighed, checking his mirrors and pulling out onto the road. "Ok, so listen," he added. "We stop a way back so she doesn't hear the car. Then we walk up but cut round the bushes behind the station. The back door will be open, we stroll in and check the place for the real girl before we go attacking some innocent shop girl."

"Sounds good," Sam nodded. "How do we know the back door will be open?"

"Cos I left it open when I filled her up with water," he said, smiling knowingly at Sam. "And I didn't see any cigarette butts back there. So unless she's taking five for no other reason than to smell the fumes, she ain't going to have checked the back door."

"We can hope," Sam said quietly.

They drove for long enough to listen to another track on the cassette player before Dean slowed the Impala and pulled over. He cut the engine and squeaked the door open, disappearing round the back. Sam got out and found him with the boot lid up, already sorting through the hidden arsenal.

Dean turned and handed him a duffle, shutting the lid and then taking it off him again.

"Come on then," he said brightly. "We got work to do."

They walked back to the gas station, staying away from the main road and tramping through the muddy grass. They made it to the perimeter and Dean stopped them.

"You taking this one? Or shall I?" he asked.

"You check the door, you know where it is and how you left it," Sam said, unzipping the duffle still on Dean's shoulder. He fished inside. "I'll follow and cover."

"Deal," he said, waiting for Sam to pull out his Taurus handgun before sliding the bag off his shoulder and reaching in for his weapon.

He turned and walked on, heading further way from the road and skirting the trees and bushes to work around the lighted forecourt.

They reached the back of the air and water machine, both boys crouching and readying weapons.

"I'm guessing the real girl's in the storeroom," Dean said quietly.

"Then let's check," Sam hissed back.

Dean stood slowly, eyeing the CCTV cameras and waiting. He took off running toward the back wall suddenly, and Sam scrambled after him.

They hit the wall and Dean eyed round it slowly, grinning.

"Door's still open," he breathed at Sam. "I'm going in. Make sure nothing jumps out at me."

"Gotcha."

Dean nodded, then took the safety off his nickel-plated Colt 1911. He looked at it for a second, then slid round the corner.

Sam followed silently, his Taurus ready. He saw Dean disappear in through the door he had wanged open and cautiously advanced on the same entrance.

He stepped in to hear Dean's voice talking softly somewhere inside. He turned right and walked into the storeroom, finding him bent over a distraught girl, her hands tied to the metal shelf above her head.

"Listen to me – we are going to get you out of here," Dean was saying urgently. She was shaking her head desperately. "We know what she is – we're going to take care of her," he added. The girl's head stopped as Dean slowly untied the gag in her mouth. She took in a deep breath but Dean slapped a hand over her mouth tightly. "If you make a noise, we are all screwed."

Sam turned to look out of the storeroom.

But the metal door slammed shut.

On his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

_This chapter is a re-post - just been alerted to the fact that entire sentences from Dean's explanation of the air-vent were lost in formatting Hell when viewed in Safari. I notice Firefox displays it ok though. Weird. My apologies - here's the corrected version._

* * *

**THREE**

_"So **that's** how you hurt your hand?" John gasped._

_"Not by a long shot," Grandpa Sam grinned. John put his little hands to his face._

_"What happened? How did you get out? Did you catch the 'shifter?" he gabbled._

_"You want me to finish?" Grandpa teased, and he nodded slowly, his eyes wide. "Well then, listen carefully…"_

Sam howled in pain, dropping his gun. It clattered to the floor. The door opened slightly and he was shoved in the chest. His trainer caught in the floor tile. He lost his balance and careened backwards. He landed heavily on something pointy and malleable, and the next thing he knew he was sprawled on top, getting his breath back.

"Sam?" he heard quietly.

"Dean! We're locked in!" he observed.

"Maybe if you got _the hell off me_ I could see!" his brother cried angrily.

Sam squirmed and rolled to the floor, finding Dean flattened out on the cold, dusty metal grating.

"Sorry," he managed, bending over and putting his hand out. Dean brushed it aside, getting to his feet by himself and picking up his gun slowly.

"Perfect, Sammy," he snapped. He looked at the girl, but she was watching them with wide eyes. "What's your name?" he asked tersely.

"Oli – Olivia," she stammered.

"Right then, Olivia, my brother Sammy, the dumbass of the family, is going to untie you and get you out of the back door. I'm going to get up that air vent and go shoot that 'shifter bitc—"

_"And what are you two big men talking about?" Sarah called, opening the door. John leaned on his grandfather gratefully, smiling up at his mother._

_"Just my room. And Gramps was asking me about school," he said innocently. His grandfather looked down at his tiny grandson and knew exactly how his inherited puppy-dog eyes were going to work on his mother._

_"Alright then. Here," she said, walking over and handing each of them a mug. John's was half-full of orange juice, his grandfather's full of steaming coffee._

_"Thanks," he said easily._

_"No problem. You know, if you want to come downstairs, I don't mind," she said. "I'm only doing accounts on my home day. It's no trouble if you're around when I'm working."_

_"I know," John answered for them. "But I want to be in my new room for a little while."_

_"Ok then. Have fun," she winked, smiling at her father-in-law before retreating and closing the room behind her._

_"Phew!" John sighed, looking up at his grandfather. "So come on then, how did you hurt your hand?"_

Sam nursed his throbbing hand as he untied Olivia slowly. Dean pushed packing crates and boxes to the far wall and jumped up them with surprisingly agility. He pushed at the panel in the ceiling and it slammed over on the inside.

He grasped at the edge and hauled himself up, his legs dangling out of the hole as Sam was helping Olivia to her feet.

"What – what is she?" she trembled.

"She's a shapeshifter," Sam said gently. "She just looks like you right now. We're going to get rid of her."

"You mean… kill her?" she whimpered, holding her elbows as if cold.

"She's not a 'she', she's a monster," Sam reasoned. "If we hadn't come back for you, she would have had to kill _you_."

"What?" she whispered. She looked at her feet as Sam checked the back of his hand, shaking it to try to ease the pain. At least there were no cuts or blood. He reached down and picked up his gun slowly, eyeing it before putting the safety on and tucking it in the back of his jeans.

"Look, stay here," he said, hearing bumps and bangs from the ceiling. He looked up to find Dean had already disappeared into the shaft, and was probably shuffling his way down. He looked back at Olivia. "She's not going to waste time checking on you if she thinks we're after her. You'll be safe here."

She nodded and shrank back against the wall. Sam hurried to the door and checked the lock over smartly.

They heard bangs, screams and a shot fired. Then another, and another. It all fell silent. Sam looked at Olivia, then pulled his gun slowly, swallowing. He stepped back from the door, standing between it and her bravely. She clutched at his shoulder as the door lock clicked.

They watched the door knob turn and then it swung open slowly.

Sam raised the gun quickly, waiting. Dean poked his head round the doorjamb, then smiled.

"Hey, it's me," he said unnecessarily, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans and waving them out of the room.

"No! He might be her!" Olivia whispered fearfully, still clutching at Sam's shoulder.

"You could be right," Sam said thoughtfully. Dean rolled his eyes and huffed.

"Really?" he pressed. "Then come and look at the dead 'shifter that looks like Olivia," he said, hands up in surrender.

Sam huffed and grasped Olivia's hand, edging out. He raised the gun again at 'Dean'.

"Get back. You come near us and I'll shoot," he said firmly.

"Yeah right," Dean said dismissively. "Go look, Sammy. It's by the engine oil."

Olivia scooted round Sam to keep him between her and 'Dean', edging off and pulling the taller man with her. She hurried through the shop but Dean didn't follow. He simply leaned on the storeroom door jamb, folding his arms and waiting.

Sam kept his gun trained on him anyway, letting himself be pulled across the shop. When Olivia stopped and screamed he looked round quickly.

A perfect copy of Olivia lay out on the floor, sprawled on her front, her head twisted to one side. She looked surprised. Three holes were letting a strange gooey substance ooze out of it slowly, and Sam let his gun hand drop.

He looked up from the body as Dean walked over slowly.

"Believe me now, slick?" he asked brightly.

"Yeah, sorry man," he said quietly, looking back at the body. "How did you—"

"Aw man, you shoulda _seen_ it," Dean grinned, clapping a hand on his back. "I came out of the vent upside down - _upside down_, man! She was running, I told her to stop. She turned round - I think she was gonna try pulling the old Sliding Tackle on me, except I was hanging from the ceiling. Got her three times, perfect shots," he grinned, patting once before letting his hand drop.

"Great," Sam said, a little bemused at his brother's pride but outraged for Olivia's sake.

"Who _are_ you people?" she demanded, staring at Dean.

"We're leaving," he said simply. "After we've stripped this place of any evidence. We need your CCTV tapes sweetheart, and to haul ass on this cleaning up thing," he added happily. "Sammy, get the mop bucket."

_"So how did you hurt your hand?" John asked, confused. "Was it the werewolf?"_

_"Now John," Grandpa said indulgently. "If I told you before we got to that part of the story, it'd ruin it."_

_"But it's nearly midday!" he protested. "Mom'll call us down for lunch soon! You have to tell me, Grampa, you just have to!"_

_His grandfather grinned, shaking his head. "All good things come to those who wait," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Shall I continue?"_

_"Yes!" John squealed._

_"Alright then…"_

"It's nearly one in the morning," Sam observed grumpily.

"I noticed," Dean said curtly. Sam huffed and looked out of the window, watching the dark blur and black shapes whiz past the passenger window of the Impala. "Just sit tight, we're nearly at the town limits."

They were indeed just passing a sign that read 'Marlborough – 3', and Sam forced himself to calm down.

"Where did you say this thing holed up again?" Dean asked.

"Next to a river," Sam said. "It'll be one of two barns by the Marchent Farm."

"Great. Oh gee, look, I forgot my GPRS this morning – where the hell is _that_, Sammy?" Dean demanded, frustrated.

Sam unfolded the map book and searched it quickly. "What are we on now?"

"The only road into town!"

"Ok! Calm down!" Sam snapped, snapping on the interior light and trying to read by it. He tutted and pulled out his small Maglite, twisting it on. "We need… the next right," he said.

The Impala shot past the junction and Dean cursed something. He braked harshly and looked around, finding the place deserted. He pushed her into Reverse and leaned his right hand on the back of the seat, backing her up past the turning. He checked the road, muttering something as he hauled her round the corner and followed the road.

"Now what?"

"Now… keep going," Sam said, lifting the map and turning it round. "No wait… Ah… I think we're going the wrong way."

"Damn it, Sam! You said you were in a hurry to get this thing!"

"Just turn around!" he cried angrily. Dean closed his mouth with a firm snap. His chin jutted out at a dangerous angle as he pulled over, then swept the car round. The long wheelbase was not at all helpful and he ended up doing a three-point turn before roaring off back to the junction. He stopped, the engine purring eagerly.

"Straight across?"

"Straight across," Sam nodded. "Keep going till the houses stop."

Dean put his foot down and followed the road, eyes darting about cautiously. Eventually the last house swept by them and Sam looked up from his map quickly.

"Stop!"

Dean braked abruptly and Sam's head narrowly missed colliding with the dash.

"Not so hard!" he protested.

Dean pinned him with a look that could have been broken up and served in drinks. "Well?"

"Left," he said quickly. "There's a tiny back road, it leads to the river."

Dean simply checked his mirrors before peeling off left, gliding the car off the road and inching her through a hedge. As they pulled through the other side, they found trees and brush lining a narrow dirt track.

"Typical," Dean snorted. "I just got through hosing the last lot of mud off her."

They made slow progress through down the track, Dean worrying every inch that they'd get hung up, or worse – stuck in the soft mud. He made sure to keep going and not press to hard on the accelerator at any one time.

The track bent round to the right at a steep angle and suddenly they burst through a hundred feet from a river bank. The water bubbled past them as they looked out.

Dean cut the engine and reached over the back seat for his duffle.

"Right. What's the plan?" he asked.

"Ah… go in the barn and shoot the werewolf," Sam said deliberately sarcastically, and Dean paused to glare at him.

"So what, he's just waiting to be shot, is he? Just lying out, napping, right where we can stroll over and say '_hey there, big fella, we've come to clean house_'?" he retorted.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"He might be feeding," he pointed out.

"He might be out at Book Club or painting the town red for all we know," Dean snapped.

"Fine! Then I'll go in and kill it! You stay here and make excuses!" he cried, opening the door with a squeak and slamming it behind him.

"Brothers," Dean breathed, getting out of the car and slamming the door. He shouldered his duffle, putting a hand to his ribs and grimacing.

Sam looked back as he drew his gun, noticing Dean's awkward gait.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, Sam, I'm fine," he snapped. "Let's just find him and kill him."

Sam walked on to the barn, shuffling over as quietly as he could. He put his hand to the wooden slats, opening the door slowly.

He poked his head in, finding it silent at first. Then his ears made out the slow huff-huffing of something large breathing in the darkness.

He looked back over his shoulder, finding Dean had dumped his duffle but had two guns ready, one gleaming in each hand in the bright moonlight.

He turned back to the barn, hearing Dean close in behind him as he ducked in through the door. They shuffled inside, Sam lifting a hand from his gun to indicate the direction of the heavy breathing.

They spread right and left, Sam moving forwards in the hay across the floor, glad of the few missing slats in the ceiling that let in the streaming moonlight. Dean shifted further left, determined to get a forty-five degree angle on the beast so as not to shoot Sam in the crossfire.

Sam forged ahead, closing on the breathing. It was coming from behind the bailed hay, stacked nearly to the ceiling in front of him. The breathing seemed to change speed and depth as he neared it. He felt his heart in his mouth as he neared the source.

He sprang round the hay bails and squeezed on the trigger.

But at the very last nano-second he let his finger go.

He stared at the cow, watching him with apparent disinterest.

"Son of a–" he began.

Before a huge set of claws loosely bound together by bone grasped his hand and pulled.

* * *

**_Hope this one displays correctly. If not, someone please drop me a line!_**


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"_So __**that's**__ how you hurt your hand!" John cried, his hands at his face. "The werewolf grabbed it with his big claws!"_

"_I wish," Grandpa Sam chuckled, shaking his head._

"_It wasn't?"_

"_No, it wasn't," he confirmed. He looked at his coffee, still half-full, then at John's glass that had until recently held orange juice. "You need another?" he asked._

"_Grampa!" he protested. "I need to hear the rest of the story! It's nearly two o'clock and Mom'll be making lunch soon!"_

"_Ok, keep your hair on," he teased, tousling his black head fondly. John rested back against his side, getting comfortable. "Right… Where was I?" he asked._

"_You just found the cow," John reminded him faithfully._

"_Oh yeah, the cow… the cow… Ok," he nodded. "So then…"_

The huge paw ripped at Sam's wrist, hauling him off his feet. He was aware of his gun firing and a shout that may or may not have been his.

He heard snarling and panting. He turned on his side and kicked at the creature. Limbs heavy with fur and muscle grabbed at him. He was dragged across the floor on his side. His hands came free. He scrabbled for the fallen Taurus but couldn't even see it.

The snarling and snapping came close. He turned on his back. The werewolf drew back slightly, preparing itself for a strike. Sam pushed up with both hands against the huge shoulders. The wolf appeared surprised and hesitated. Sam rolled as fast as he could but the wolf creature reached for him.

There was a shout, this time definitely not his. Then a gun shot. Sam didn't pause. He kept scrabbling to get clear. He strained to reach his gun. The snarling and snapping behind him was louder. He was grasped by the ankle and lost his footing. It dragged him across the wooden floor as he scrabbled to keep hold of his gun.

He was wrenched onto his back, his gun firmly in his hand. He cocked it and looked up into the face of the wolf.

He squeezed the trigger, letting off a perfect shot. The next instant a warm spray covered his face in gallons of liquid. He spat quickly, keeping it from getting into his mouth. He opened his eyes to find the wolf staring at him, surprised. A huge exit hole had appeared in his forehead, dripping gore and more blood over him.

"Dean!" he protested, putting his hands up and trying to push the monster off him.

His older brother appeared at the side, crouching down and then hunkering down lower to watch him heave and push, to no avail.

"Having hairy fun there, dude?" he asked cheekily.

"Help me out!" he cried angrily.

"You know I'd help you, Sammy, but I just want to watch you struggle," he grinned. Sam bit out a rather caustic reply and Dean's mouth rounded, his eyebrows sliding together in mock disapproval. "Language, Sammy!" he smiled, before getting up and walking away again.

Sam heard him grunt and heave, and the wolf became lighter. He pushed at one side, shifting out from under it quickly.

Dean let it go and it slammed back down to the floor with a reverberating _thud_.

Sam rolled to his knees, panting breath back and making an attempt to wipe his face. He got up slowly, pushing the sleeve of his shirt over his wet cheeks.

"You shot it in the back of the head?" Sam demanded, unimpressed, watching his brother retrieve the duffle bag.

"Can you show me a safer way?" Dean shrugged, checking the safeties were on his two guns before securing one in his jeans and one in the duffle. "Come on, let's get this freaky-ass thing in the river before someone comes to investigate the noise."

They dragged the body toward the river bank, the weight making thing difficult until they hit the slippery bank.

"_But Grampa, you said werewolves go back to their human body when they die," John pointed out._

_His grandfather looked at him with a smile._

"_Maybe this one had been stuck like it too long," he shrugged. "Reports of that beast had been around for a few hundred years. If it had been the same one, maybe it would have been a hard shape to get rid of when it died. You never really know for sure, sometimes."_

"_Oh. Ok then," John said happily. "So… your hand?"_

"_I was just coming to that," he said patiently. "We thought the thing was dead – we had used silver rounds, after all. Your Great Uncle Dean did get him straight in the head. I got him in the chest, straight through the heart, by the way," he added._

_John grinned. "I knew you would," he said. "So?"_

"_So, we dragged it down to the river…"_

Sam slipped in the mud, falling and crying out.

"Dude! Don't be such a girl," Dean tutted, turning and then sliding over too. He landed heavily on his back and the breath was pushed from him admirably. He had a moment to thank any passing deity that he hadn't landed on the duffle full of pointy objects. Still, he'd been winded – and jarred a set of ribs steadily becoming increasingly painful after abusing them in a very wrong way to hang upside down out of an air shaft. "Son – of a–"

"Dean!" Sam interrupted. "Sounds like a car." He paused, and to his older brother's experienced ear, he sounded short of breath. "Get it in the river, quick!"

Dean lifted both feet and kicked. His boots connected with the side of the creature and it began to roll. It sped up and walloped into the river with a loud splash. There was a sickening bubbling sound as Dean struggled to his feet, checking it had indeed sunk.

He looked over at his younger brother. "Come on Sam, we gotta get out of here," he breathed. He staggered over and rolled Sam onto his back. He was clutching his leg tightly. "Whut?"

"I think I'm hurt," he breathed painfully.

"Well can you walk?" Dean asked quickly, looking up, back toward the barn. The two hundred foot stretch was crowded by just enough trees to keep them hidden for now. But it would be easy for anyone to follow the drag marks in the grass.

"I think so," he managed. He twisted to get up and Dean grabbed his shirt, helping him.

"Come on," he breathed, shouldering his younger brother and taking his weight. They limped back up the slight incline, Dean halting them at the sound of voices and engines.

They waited under the bright moonlight, Sam keeping his mouth clamped shut against the pain in his knee. Dean held him up under his right shoulder, his own right hand on the front of the younger man's shirt to stop him toppling forward. The combined weight of his brother and duffle started to remind him of his own rib problems, but right then he had more important things to worry about. They listened, hearing the voices become weaker, and then heard one of the engines starting back up and disappearing.

Finally they retreated a short way, edging round the voices and leaving them behind. They staggered and limped, sweated and growled their way to the Impala, waiting faithfully in the dingy shadows of trees made creature-like by the moon.

Dean opened the passenger door and helped Sam slide in. Sam relaxed into the seat gratefully, feeling taking the weight off his knee relieve the pain. He put his hands up to the roof through the open door, pulling on it to take his weight. He shifted in the seat slightly as he heard the boot opening and closing.

"Let's make a run for it," Dean said firmly, "then we can find out how badly you hurt your own self."

"Good thinking, Batman," Sam admitted on a painful sigh. His left hand slipped from the roof as he moved himself again slightly with his right.

Dean slammed the passenger door.

Sam gasped in a deep breath and his mouth opened.

"_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggghhhh!_" he bellowed with an inhuman volume, his right hand mashed between door and frame.

"Goddamn it, Sam! What are you trying to do, advertise our position!" Dean hissed angrily.

Then he looked down at his own hand on the door and realised that it had bounced open again on impact. His brain back-tracked to replay what it had just done. He looked up guiltily, finding Sam's right hand falling from the roof frame, shaking dangerously.

Blood dripped from his limb. His big brother swallowed.

"Ahh… ahh… Sam?" he asked warily.

Sam was biting his lip desperately, water running down his cheeks in shock and pain.

"Sam? I'm just gonna… ah… I'm just gonna close the door, ok?" he said fearfully.

He didn't wait for an answer. He put his hands to the paintwork and pushed the door closed with the gentlest click the automobile had ever known. Then he sped round the other side, climbing into the driver's seat and shoving the keys in the ignition.

"Hold on – I'll get us to a hospital," he breathed quickly. He spared Sam a glance as he reversed the old girl back and round. The younger man's face was streaked with water, his eyes squeezed shut. His jaw was a study in muscle definition as he clenched it shut, his left hand cradling his right, currently oozing blood over his jeans. "Jesus Sam! I'm real sorry," he managed.

"Hospital," he bit out, more of a whimper than anything else. "Right… now…"

"_No way!" John shouted, laughing and leaning back to batter at his grandfather's side. "Great Uncle Dean did that? Gud did that to you?"_

"_Yeah, he did," he sighed, lifting his hand to look at it. "Not always the brightest tool in the drawer, but man, could he shoot," he chuckled. He traced the line over his hand slowly, remembering the day very clearly. He let out a long breath, shaking his head. "I spent about four hours getting stitches and blood," he added. "Turned out I'd only twisted my knee, after all that. It was my hand that hurt like hell for weeks."_

"_I hope you made him do loads of stuff for you," John said. Grandpa Sam grinned, putting his hand out on his young grandson's far shoulder._

"_Oh I did, don't you worry," he said knowingly._

"_John, Dad! Lunch!" Sarah called up the stairs. "You want it down here, or up there?"_

"_Well?" his grandfather asked the little boy._

"_Well," John said seriously, "I've had two great monster stories today. Think we'll go downstairs," he nodded._

"_Yeah," his grandfather replied. "Let's pretend we haven't been talking about scary things – and go see what your mother's got for us."_


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

"So what were you two doing up there all that time?" Sarah asked craftily, putting the plates down in front of them. John's cheeseburger with extra lettuce was simply screaming to be eaten, but he made himself wait until Grandpa Sam had sat down slowly.

He looked at his salad and fries, then at John innocently. "We were talking about his soccer team," he said and John smiled, relieved. "And telling stories."

"Oh Dad, don't tell him about any more of your made-up monsters," she teased.

"About _my_ old soccer trophies," he added, and she relaxed.

"Ok then. Honestly – he wrote some bizarre story about vampires last week for his English assignment. Mrs Coggins nearly had a heart attack reading it. Didn't she, young man?" she asked, looking at John now.

"Not my fault she's such a girl," John shrugged, picking up his cheeseburger. His grandfather laughed out loud, but Sarah frowned at her father-in-law.

"You see? He's not even around and he talks like your brother," she pointed out. Sam couldn't help it, he laughed harder, and she let her frustration soften. "Oh dear," she grinned, getting up to fetch the sauce from the kitchen table.

The doorbell rang and she came out of the kitchen, putting the sauce on the dining table.

"Oh, these salesmen," she tutted. "Wait here, I'll get rid of him. This is the fourth one this week. You know, if your father were home he'd send him packing right enough."

She disappeared down the hall toward the front door, and Sam looked at John, winking. John grinned and pushed as much cheeseburger into his mouth as possible, munching away happily. It was silent for a long moment as he managed to crunch it all and swallow it, watching his grandfather start on his lunch in rather more relaxed fashion.

"So Gramps?" he asked.

"Yes, John?"

"If werewolves can live for like—"

"What's all this? Thought I smelt cheese on a burger!" came a voice, and John's face rippled in shock as he dropped the cheeseburger as if it were burning his fingers. He twisted in his seat quickly. Sam looked up, surprised.

"_Gud_!" John squealed in complete and absolute excitement. "You came!"

"'Course I did, squirt," Dean Winchester said confidently, walking round the table as if to sit down. "Room for one more?"

But John jumped off his chair and ran round, banging into the old man's legs and hugging viciously. Sarah walked back into the room, folding her arms and grinning at the pair of them.

"Woah woah waoh – leave a man his transport, will you?" Dean chuckled.

John let his legs go and looked up at him. Dean picked him up easily, despite his seventy-two years. He sat him on his arm, attracting a death grip of a hug round his neck of which any inhuman creature would have been proud. John let him go at last, sitting back on his arm, and Dean grinned at him.

"And how's my favourite Winchester?"

"Great! I've got loads to show you!" he giggled, then leaned close to his ear, cupping his hand to whisper. "Wait till you read my English essay."

Dean looked at him. "Can't wait," he said, patting his back and letting him down to the carpet again securely. John watched him eagerly, but his great-uncle was looking across the table. "Hey Sammy," he grinned.

His hair may have been silvery blond, his goatee more bright white than faded strawberry-blond, and his face slightly wider and definitely more rugged, but his eyes were the same happy dark green his brother remembered from the stories – the same they always were every time he said Sam's name.

"Hey Dean," Sam managed, standing slowly. "I thought you weren't going to make it."

"What, and miss out on all this family type stuff you got going on? Naw," he grinned, as Sam walked round the table.

He put his arms round his brother, squeezing for a long moment. He opened his eyes, spotting the scar on the back of his hand suddenly, and was lost in memories for a long second. Then he let him go, patting at his arm.

"So you haven't managed to get away to come see us in six months, and now suddenly you're free? What gives?" he asked, forcing himself to forget how long it had been since he'd seen him last. He decided he would be content with seeing him now.

"Two garages hit by the tax man, and one more losing my best mechanic," Dean shrugged, peeling off his jacket. "Got it all straightened out now though."

John got back into his chair, picking up his cheeseburger but watching the two old men avidly. Sarah came over and patted Dean's taller shoulder in a firm manner that only a mother could get away with.

"You sit, I'll fix you something," she smiled warmly.

"Oh no, you don't have to do that," he protested, sitting anyway. "I just ate 'fore I came out."

"Rubbish," she said. "I can always tell when you've been too busy to eat." She walked off into the kitchen and Dean winked at his great-nephew.

"So how've you been, kid?" he asked meaningfully. John swallowed his food double-quick time.

"I got a new room – and a new terminal! Gramps got the model right, Dad said he would," he grinned. Dean flicked his gaze to Sam, then back at John.

"He wouldn't be Gramps if he didn't know his computers, right?" he grinned. "You tested that new one yet?"

"Not yet," he admitted.

"Then see if this'll play in it," Dean said, taking his hand from under the table and placing a small plastic box by John's hand.

"Oh no – no no no no," Sam said quickly, snatching it up with more speed than he should have had at his age. "Sarah will kill me."

"No she won't, your Bobby wouldn't let her," Dean said dismissively. "Anyway, it's one of them play and learn things. Very new to the States – near-on had to sell my soul to get one," he grinned. Sam let his eyes roll, something that appeared to amuse both Dean and John. Dean made a show of looking around. "Speaking of Hellspawn, where _is_ your boy?" he teased.

"Working. He has a proper job, remember," he said flatly, and Dean eyed him.

"A _proper_ job?"

"A_ proper_ job, Dean. He gets _paid wages_ and everything."

"Oh. Sounds kinda boring."

"Like what you've been reduced to?" he pointed out with a smile brighter than necessary, and Dean fixed him with a warning look.

Sam looked away from him deliberately, eyeing the small box in his fingers as he turned it over and over slowly. He looked at his grandson.

"I think your mother needs some help," he said knowingly.

"Ok," John chirped, sliding out of his chair. He patted at Dean's arm on the table as he left.

"Whut?" Dean asked his younger brother straight away, sitting back and turning his hands out in confusion. Sam tutted.

"Don't go making him think his dad has a boring job. He thinks his dad's a hero. Stop it."

"Well, hey," Dean protested. "_I_ think his dad's a hero – he has to do all this family life thing non-stop. He's even got a lawn to mow. Can you imagine the horror of waking up every day and it still being there?" he joked, but Sam noticed the bitterness, even if Dean didn't recognise it himself.

"Well… whatever. But you can't just buy John stuff," Sam frowned. "He's going to think you only come here to drop new games on him and then leave again."

"Aw come on, Sammy. Who else have I got to spend my money on?"

"You mean _after_ paying out three sets of alimony?" he asked politely, and Dean's head went down but his eyes went up at him in a gesture that Sam knew all too well.

"Don't you start that again. I tried, man. Not my fault none of them stuck," he added edgily. Sam let his shoulders sag, looking back at the small box.

"Yeah, I know."

He watched his fingers on the plastic box intently, wishing he could voice his thoughts. But he knew the reaction he'd get if he tried.

_Cos we never talked about it. Every time I got The Call from you, telling me you were trying another 'trial separation' and needed somewhere to stay for a week. And all through divorces and moving homes and giving up the temporary life you'd made, we talked about demons, deals, monsters, Dad and every possible thing in between. But you could never talk to me about any one of your failed marriages, could you?_

He looked up at his brother. "I should have stopped you marrying Mandy though. Shoulda seen _that_ one coming," he said, trying to lighten the moment.

"Yeah right," Dean snorted, as Sarah and John came back and sat down at the table. Sarah placed a homemade cheeseburger and a cup of hot, black coffee in front of Dean.

"There we go," she said, putting a hand to his arm and rubbing slowly. "That ok for you?"

"Super," he smiled.

John put his hand out and placed it on the table suddenly. Everyone turned and looked at his little fist.

"Something you want to show us, Big Man?" Dean smiled.

John grinned. "Me and Dad were at the mall. They had loads of really cool stuff there, Gud, you would have loved it," he grinned excitedly. "And I saw something, and I asked my Dad to get it for you. He said you'd like it. He said it's really old though – he had to transfer it to the new music format. He said it would be too old to play otherwise."

He opened his hand, revealing a small memory chip.

"What is it?" Dean asked, putting his hand out. John couldn't help giggling in sheer excitement as he dropped it into his great-uncle's hand.

"It's music. Dad says it's someone called Akker Dakker."

Dean frowned, staring at it in befuddlement, his silvery eyebrows quirked up and his mouth rounded into a curious 'o' shape.

"Akker Dakker?" he prompted.

The penny dropped and abruptly his face cleared. Sam's eyes widened in realisation and he started to grin.

"Akker Dakker," Sam laughed suddenly.

"Akker Dakker!" Dean chuckled.

"What?" Sarah asked, confused. "What's Akker Dakker?"

"AC/DC!" Sam and Dean chorused, then abruptly they both hooted with laughter.

John simply looked from one to the other, not sure what he'd done but willing to accept the credit anyway.

"So you know what '_Back In Black_' and '_album_' mean too?" he asked. "Dad said you would."

"Man, I've told you before and I'll tell you again – that's one fantastic son you've raised," Dean laughed.

"And grandson," Sarah added impishly.

"John Winchester," Dean announced grandly, turning to look at him. The little boy felt the full force of the presence, the charisma, the over-powering bundle of gravity that was still Dean Winchester stare at him. Suddenly he could well imagine how werewolves, tulpas, vampires, strigas, rakshasas, crocottas, wendigos, shapeshifters and countless spirits had shrunk away from the younger version of him out of some kind of healthy respect for such an indomitable force of Nature.

"Yeah?" the young boy managed, unable to make his mouth produce any other sound.

Dean opened his mouth, but simply did not know what to say.

"Well well well, now I've seen everything," Sarah smiled, sitting back in her chair. "Dean Winchester, speechless."

Dean simply grinned at John, putting his palm up. John knelt up excitedly, slapping his palm to his great-uncle's in a resounding high-five. But Dean curled his fingers round the little boy's, making him giggle and shake his great-uncle's hand.

He let go and sat down again, watching him look over at his grandfather.

"You know, when I hear snatches of this album it's like I can almost hear the old girl purr again," he grinned, but there was a modicum of sadness in there too.

"Me too," Sam admitted, his eyes creasing at the sides. "But you know what, man?" he asked quietly, and Sarah recognised the wistful tone in her father-in-law's voice all too easily. "You always say it's a good job you never had your own family, cos you have nothing worth passing on." He paused, knowing that while John was watching them, Dean couldn't just tell him to shut the hell up. "You pretend to think 'passing things on' is all about possessions. That's why you gave Bobby your guitar."

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam raised a hand at him.

"He didn't tell me, I just knew you would. You gave your guitar to him, and eventually your baby to the museum. But there's two things you have that aren't possessions, and you definitely need to pass them on. Your love of _that_, for one," he said, lifting his hand again but pointing at the music chip this time. "And if I know my grandson, John's gonna ask you for the other one."

Dean just stared at him, and poor wee John had no idea how to interpret the look on his great-uncle's face.

Grandpa Sam got up, walking past his older brother, patting his shoulder as he went. Sarah got up too, leaning over and clearing John's now empty plate. She caught Sam's eye and followed him into the kitchen.

John watched his great-uncle for what seemed like forever. He appeared to be staring at the chip in his hand. John wondered if his face were sad or lost in something he was thinking about.

_I can't interrupt him! He **is** Gud! _he reminded himself in awe. _But then… what's asking him, compared to fighting real monsters? And if I don't ask…_

He straightened, taking a fortifying breath and reminding himself how brave he could be.

"_Psst_!" he hissed.

Dean tore his eyes away from the chip clenched tightly in his old, worn hand. He looked at John gratefully. His face morphed into a smile, and John realised he had been silly to be afraid.

"So what are you after, kid?" he asked warmly. "Trying out your new game or trying out this music chip?"

John Winchester leaned forward in his chair, lowering his voice to a secret level.

"How about," he whispered, making Dean bend to hear him, "we try that music chip _and_ you tell me a story. At the same time."

"A story? Me?" he grinned.

"A story. You," John grinned back.

"What about?"

"How you got that scar on your elbow," he whispered. "And you haven't told me a single story about rawheads yet!"

Dean studied the little boy's eager face for a long moment, and John was surprised how grateful his great-uncle suddenly looked.

Dean winked, tipping a finger at him as he got up. He picked up his plate and coffee, walking into the front room slowly. John jumped up and raced after him, finding him placing the food and beverage on the table in front of the sofa. He turned and held the music chip out to his great-nephew.

"What do you do with this thing?" he grinned.

John took it quickly, giggling as he ran to the small iPlay in the corner of the room.

"Honestly Gud. If Grampa can do computer stuff, why can't you?" he teased, turning and finding his great-uncle making himself comfortable in the corner of the sofa.

"I've never done geek stuff," he replied archly, but grinned as John leapt onto the sofa. He shuffled up and sat, throwing his legs out next to his great-uncle's.

The familiar chimes of '_Hell's Bells_' started up from the hidden speakers around the room, and the old man paused, as if stuck in time.

"Gud?" John dared quietly. "Sometimes you get this look on your face, and… and I don't think you're really here with us. It's like you're somewhere else."

Dean looked at him, surprised. "Really? I thought your grandpa was the one with the magic face," he teased. John grinned, leaning on him, and Dean stretched his arm behind him. John wiggled to lean more against him, getting comfortable.

"This is good music," John offered quietly, and Dean snorted with amusement.

"The best," he muttered, an image of a long-since gone black 1967 Chevrolet Impala popping into his mind abruptly. He let himself stare at her, remembering all the little rattles and squeaks that had made her home for so many years. Then he forced himself to push her from his mind reluctantly.

"So?" John asked, reaching out and taking the coffee from the table. He handed it to him and he sipped it gratefully.

"So – the one about how I got that scar," he said brightly, putting the coffee back down and looking at his small grand-nephew. "It happened like this – and it just so happens it _does_ include rawheads."

**THE END**

* * *

**_Thanks_** to everyone who read it over at **** and left comments. Love you all long time, baby!


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